Havoc
by katydidit
Summary: When the doors slid closed, taking him away from his team forever, she heard a quiet sob. Rated for language at the moment, possible situations later. Zabby.
1. Chapter 1

She watched, across the dim room, as her boss said his goodbyes to the rest of his team. The men took it in stride, with merely looks of shock on their face as he made his intentions clear. Maybe this was because they were men, or because they knew this was coming, but still it surprised her that they could keep themselves in check so well. She knew how close this team was, knew how important the older man was to everyone in the room, and, though she was somewhat unfamiliar with overt displays of emotion, she wasn't entirely sure that, in their positions, she could have managed the same.

She was relieved that, as he made his way to her, she was able to slip into her Mossad training—she didn't allow the sound of his voice to affect her. She merely nodded, and promised to collect on his debt, then turned to watch him enter the elevator. When the doors slid closed, taking him away from his team forever, she heard a quiet sob. Abby.

The Goth's eyes were glued to the elevator for several more seconds, maybe hoping that he would come back out and tell them that it was all a joke. When he didn't, she took a few unsteady steps backwards, before letting out a louder, more painful sob and turning to run from the room. McGee moved as though to go after her, but Tony grabbed his arm before he could. Neither of the men said anything, but a look of understanding passed between them.

The room felt empty, strange now with the knowledge that their leader would not return. Drawing in a breath, Ziva packed several files into her bag and left, still without speaking to the others. She had every intention of going home, sitting at her kitchen table with the files and a cup of very strong tea and the familiar, not-so-strange silence of her own house. Instead, she found herself taking a detour to Abby's lab.

She couldn't say why she went. The last time she'd been in this lab, she'd been made to bear the brunt of Abby's fear and frustration...and then did the exact same thing to the other woman. She knew that the forensic scientist would undoubtedly prefer to be alone with her feelings, and would probably explode at her again for daring step foot in the scientific fortress. Because of this, she hovered outside the door for many moments, scanning the room for any sign of movement.

There she was. Crumpled on the floor, back resting against a boxy machine, with her knees pulled to her chest as though to protect herself from—well, from anything. Ziva crossed the room quietly to her, but got the feeling that even if she had been clog-dancing across the linoleum, the other woman would not have heard a sound. She did, however, notice when Ziva sank to her knees beside her, and treated her unwelcome visitor to a hateful glare. Ziva was unfazed—the effectiveness of such a glare is significantly reduced when one's eyes are bloodshot and surrounded by makeup running with one's tears.

"What do you want?" Abby demanded, in a voice that was scarcely above a whisper. What did she want? She wanted to go home. She wanted to be by herself, not with this woman who wanted her to disappear most of the time. What she wanted clearly did not matter at the moment, and thus, she had no response. A few moments went by in not-entirely-comfortable silence, and then Abby rose to her feet, wiping her eyes and sniffling to try to regain control of—well, of everything.

Ziva rose as well, and offered her a clean but crumpled tissue from her pocket. Abby glared at her yet again, incredulous, but finally accepted the token. The tiny acceptance held much significance for Ziva, who smiled—but only faintly—as Abby turned away from her to wipe her face and blow her nose. This simple act encouraged her, gave her the confidence to speak her next words.

"Come. I am taking you home."

Later, Ziva would all but marvel at the fact that she could stand strong and unblinking in front of assassins and criminals, but needed so much confidence in front of Abby. It was part of the reason she had always hated accompanying the rest of the lab for results—that and the fact that Abby had never bothered to hide the way she felt. Ziva had been accepted by Gibbs, Tony, and McGee, but with Abby, it was as though she was always being tested somehow. It had been similar back home, with her father and Ari.

"I don't need your help," Abby said, venom dripping from her words. Ziva didn't bat an eye.

"I do not care. Gather your things."

Ziva had been around long enough to know that when something was bothering Abby, the woman grew steadily more self-destructive. If someone didn't do something, it was likely that she wouldn't leave the lab: she'd just find more and more things to process, tests to run, paperwork to catch up on. She wouldn't sleep for days, and, to make up for it, would probably double her already-dangerous intake of caffeine.

She knew as well as anyone how stubborn Abby could be, and therefore was admittedly shocked when the taller woman didn't argue. Instead, her shoulders slumped forward and she turned on her heel to go into her office. She returned momentarily, surrounded by an air of defeat that shocked Ziva. Hiding this shock well, Ziva gave a slight nod of approval and indicated the door. She would be behind Abby, to discourage any ideas of running that might crop up in that rebellious, pigtailed head of hers.

Ziva guided her to her car—there was no way she was going to drive Abby's hearse, nor would she allow her to drive—and as soon as the doors shut, an even thicker silence settled between them. It was broken only once, by Abby's raspy, sullen voice.

"You don't know where I live."

Ziva glanced at her, and contemplated making sure that the locks were engaged to keep her from jumping out while the vehicle was moving.

"I do not," she agreed.

"Well, don't you need to know? If you're taking me home?"

"I am taking you to my home," Ziva corrected, eyes on the road. Much of her focus was already on trying to drive much more slowly than she usually did. She did not feel like getting pulled over for speeding and risking one of Abby's outbursts. Now she ventured a glance at the woman in the passenger seat, who was gaping at her.

"I don't think so!" came the indignant reply. "I don't even want to be in this car with you—forget being in the same room! Let me out of the car, right now."

She received no answer, other than the revving of the engine as Ziva pressed harder on the gas pedal. In her second stunning display of submission of the night, Abby let the subject go.

Soon, Ziva was pulling up in front of her house and putting the car in place. She looked over at her passenger, who, after falling silent earlier, had pressed her forehead against the cool glass of the window. Her eyes were open staring sightlessly at some point just beyond the window, and she made no movement towards undoing her seat belt and exiting the car.

"You may not sleep in my car," Ziva declared, unfastening the buckle for her.

"You're not my mother," came the reply, sounding for all the world as though it had been spoken by a petulant child. Ziva tried not to laugh.

"That is correct. Get out of the car."

She was tired, drained from the past week, and, as such, was no longer making the effort to mask the irritation in her voice. Abby looked up, maybe shocked, and finally complied. She followed Ziva to the front stoop and waited patiently as she unlocked the front door. Ziva dropped her things on the small table next to the entrance and locked up behind her. She noted that Abby continued to clutch the strap of her purse, as she stood awkwardly in the living room, and felt a pang of pity for the woman make its way through her frustration.

"You have a choice," she declared, making an effort to soften her voice once more. Abby scoffed, and may have muttered a "That's a first" under her breath, but Ziva let it pass. "My couch folds out into a bed, or you may sleep in my bed and I will take the couch. Which one would you like?"

"I don't care," Abby said with a shrug that seemed to say "I'm not going to be sleeping, anyway."

Despite the fact that this whole situation was a direct result of Ziva's own actions, she was done being nice. "Fine," she said. "You will sleep on the couch then. I am going to bed. If you are hungry or thirsty, my kitchen is through there. Do not bother with my television. It is broken." She paused in the doorway, on the off chance that maybe Abby might have something to say to her, but after silence prevailed for a very long moment, she went to leave.

"Who do you think you are?" Ziva turned around, to see that Abby had finally dropped her purse and was now glaring at her with her hands on her hips. "Whatever you're trying to do, it's not working. You can't just drag me here against my will and tell me to go to sleep like—like a good little girl. Unlike you, I actually have feelings. Do you even care that Gibbs is gone? Do you give a shit that he's never coming back to m—to NCIS?" She stalked over to her, her glare somewhat more effective now that she was no longer crying.

Ziva crossed her arms and lifted her chin, fighting against her instincts to keep from pushing Abby away. Their faces were mere inches apart, and Ziva could see in every detail of Abby's face just how long it had been since she'd last slept.

"I care, Abby" she answered, keeping her voice level, dangerously quiet. This was not the first time that she had been tempted to tell someone about Ari, about what she had sacrificed for Agent Gibbs and his team, but tonight, as before, she held her tongue.

"Why should I believe you?"

"Because it is the truth." Ziva looked down, could see Abby's pulse beating in her neck. Suddenly, she was gripped by a strong desire to place her mouth there, to feel Abby's heart against her lips. Her skin would be soft, and heated by her blood. She would feel real against Ziva's body, and sweet to the taste. She took a moment to regain control of herself, and noticed—at the same time as Abby—that her hands were balled up in fists at her sides.

"Do you want to hit me again, Zee-va?" Abby spat, moving closer. "Do you want to wind up and punch me in the face? Knock me out? Make me bleed?" Ziva did not roll her eyes. She would not roll her eyes. Instead, she turned away from her once more, and walked calmly to her room. Before she had taken more than a few steps, the other called out to her again, the fire and anger in her words slicing through the air. "What do you want, then? Do you want to fuck me?" Ziva's spine stiffened, but she did not turn around. Abby's voice was thick, a sure sign that she would be crying soon. "What are you doing? Why am I here, Ziva? What do you want from me?"

Ziva closed her eyes against the pang that came from hearing Abby sound so lost and, for both of their sakes, did not look over her shoulder at her. "I want you..." she began slowly, and kept her voice low. She heard a soft hitch of breath behind her, and she continued. "To sleep, Abby. I want you to rest."

Without another word, Ziva resumed walking, and locked herself safely in her room for the night. What was she doing?


	2. Chapter 2

AN: Thanks for the reads and for the favorites, guys! I hate when authors beg for reviews, so I WILL NOT DO THAT. Just knowing that there are people out there who wanted to know when I posted another chapter will suffice, haha.

Somewhere in their small house, Tali was crying. She recognized the sounds—her younger sister had always tried to hide her face in her pillow when she cried, to keep from waking anyone else in the house. Every once in a while there would come a sniffle. When they were young, Ziva would often go climb into her bed with her and pull her close, singing old nursery rhymes to her until she fell asleep. Tali never asked how she heard her, and no one else in the family ever mentioned hearing anything out of the ordinary. It was something between the two of them, something that no one else in the family really understood.

Ziva sat up, first concerned about what was wrong with her sister. Then remembrance washed over her like ice water, and she swung her legs over the edge of the bed, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. It was just past two in the morning—she had been asleep for just over two hours. Had the crying been a dream? Something left over from an unremembered nightmare?

Another sniffle broke through the darkness, and the events of the day before lit up in her mind. It was not Tali crying in a bed at home in Israel, it was Abby, crying alone in the dark on a strange couch. Ziva sighed. She was not looking forward to another argument with the woman, but she didn't want to leave her by herself. With another sigh—this one of resignation—she rose and padded through the dark to her living room.

She could make out the shape of her coworker curled up on the couch, and realized with a pang that she hadn't given the other woman sheets to put down on the couch, or anything to cover up with. She hesitated for barely a moment, before joining the other woman on the couch. Abby sat up, and Ziva wondered for a moment if she was going to try to make her go away. Instead, Ziva could feel Abby's eyes searching her own in the darkness. Ziva allowed a small smile—not that it could really be seen—and reached up to brush her thumb against Abby's pale cheek. It came away wet, as Ziva had expected, and she permitted herself to trace her fingers down, along Abby's smooth jawline.

"I am sorry," she said, awkwardly, in the silence. Abby's reply was a short, bitter laugh.

"Apologizing is a sign of weakness," she said, her voice breaking. Ziva nodded, and ran her fingers down one of Abby's braids. Bits and pieces had escaped: some were sticking out of the pigtail, while a few other strands were clinging to Abby's cheek, apparently stuck there by sweat.

"Please, come with me," Ziva said after several moments, but her voice, along with the way she'd stood up and offered her hand, made it clear that this was not a request to be denied even by Abby Sciuto herself. She seemed to agree, and allowed Ziva to lead her into the bedroom, and even nudge her lightly onto the bed. Abby immediately made herself comfortable, wriggling under the quilt and pulling a pillow into the hollow of her neck. She looked so much more exhausted now than she had been when Ziva had left her first. It was obvious that she hadn't slept—probably had even stayed awake crying the whole time.

Ziva sighed and got in on the other side of the bed, scooting closer to her coworker—then closer still. Abby was too tired, or too drained, to argue, which suited Ziva just fine. This was strange. The thought weighed heavy on Ziva's mind. This was strange, and should not be happening. But she had started this, and she would be damned if she wasn't going to finish it. She had taken it upon herself to look after Abby tonight, and part of that included making sure she slept. In the darkness, she reached out to touch Abby's neck. She felt overheated, and, now that Ziva was paying attention, she realized that Abby was shivering. Without thinking, she began to hum under her breath. At first it was nothing in particular: just meant to distract Abby enough to allow her to sleep. Gradually, though, it changed into something more familiar. Ziva's eyes stung as she realized what she was doing, but she couldn't bring herself to stop.

"That's pretty," came a groggy, sleep-slurred voice. For unknown reasons, Ziva felt her face begin to burn, and just nodded, reaching up once again to move a few errant strands of hair away from Abby's face. She didn't mention that the song was one about bitterness and sweetness, a plea for protection of the things that one loved. Abby voiced no questions about the melody, and eventually Ziva decided that she had finally gone to sleep.

These sensations were very different from curling up with a frightened younger sister in the comfortable darkness of home. Long ago she had failed that sister, and could no longer offer comfort and safety in her arms and her voice. Tonight, to a woman who outwardly hated her at worst and was most often merely lukewarm with her at best, she offered those very same things. She released Abby, to turn onto her back, and would lay there, staring at the ceiling and arguing with herself, until the sun finally began to break through her curtains.


	3. Chapter 3

The sun was tickling her eyelids. Usually, Abby slept with her curtains drawn tight against the intrusion of any light, but right now it felt like she was actually laying directly under the sun. What had she done last night that she'd forgotten to close the curtains? She groaned softly and rolled over onto her stomach, and noted with severe displeasure that her entire body was sore and exhausted, still. It took several moments for her to realize that the pillow she was currently burying her face in did not smell like her own. Once she did, however, the realization that this was not her coffin was not far behind.

Still, she didn't move: just sleepily assessed the situation. There was sunlight, which meant windows, which meant she was probably not in a basement. The pillow smelled nice: it was a familiar scent that tickled her nose and taunted her brain. In any case, it was most likely a woman's bed—she had yet to encounter any man who smelled like this. She drew in a deep breath, and decided that she rather liked the scent. It was nice.

Now she stretched her legs down to the cool end of the bed, wiggling her toes comfortably as she let out a yawn. Her muscles protested the movements, and finally the events of the night before came back to her. She was only ever this sore, this stiff after crying too hard for too long, and last night had definitely fit the bill. She groaned again, but this time it was more for embarrassment than because of the sunlight. Ziva. She was in Ziva's bed. She had slept in Ziva's bed last night, and she had also made a complete fool of herself. Great. She sat up and looked around the room. There was no hint of the other woman at all—she'd probably risen and begun her day hours ago.

Abby followed suit, attempting to smooth the wrinkles out of her clothes and undoing her braids. She'd slept in them, which meant they were probably a mess right now. At least this way her outward appearance could match the way she felt inside. Gibbs had left her last night—the remembrance sent a shock of pain through her body. She'd been so afraid first that he wouldn't wake up from the coma, and then that he would never remember her, but once he had done both, he decided to leave her anyway. She swallowed hard and forced the thought away.

She left the room and padded down the hallway, one finger trailing along the walls as she navigated the unfamiliar place. She ended up in the kitchen doorway. Ziva was sitting there, and, though she had probably heard Abby coming, she hadn't looked up from her paper. Abby leaned against the doorframe and stuffed her hands in her pockets. Ziva picked up a mug and took a sip, then met Abby's eyes over the rim.

"Would you like some tea?" She asked, as though this were a perfectly normal morning. "I am sorry, but I do not have any coffee. Or Caf-Pows." The corners of her lips curled slightly at this, and Abby couldn't help but smile back. "The cups are in the cupboard next to the stove. You might want to heat the water again—I think it has probably cooled by now."

Abby nodded, and set about preparing her tea. The process had always reminded her of her grandmother, who had been an avid drinker of strange concoctions that often irritated Abby's nose whenever she visited. Sometimes she drank 'normal' teas, though, and after a while, Abby had grown to appreciate it. When she was done, she took a seat across from Ziva, and alternated between blowing on her tea to cool it and stealing glances at the woman.

She didn't often see her this way. Whereas usually the woman looked polished and perfect at work, there was something comfortable and less-than-perfect about her right now. She hadn't bothered with makeup this morning, and hadn't taken the time to smooth her hair back into a ponytail like usual. She was still sleepy—Abby could tell from her face and from the way she was holding herself—but was trying not to let on to that fact. Again, Abby felt a pang of remorse for the way she'd acted last night. Ziva had just been trying to look out for her, and she'd acted like some kind of evil bitch. Now, the woman was kind enough to act as though nothing had happened, like they were still merely coworkers and hadn't just shared a bed all night.

Despite her guilt, Abby couldn't tear her eyes away from the woman. She could have tried fooling herself into thinking that it was some kind of penance for treating her so badly, but deep down she knew that it was nothing of the sort. She was studying her, drinking in the sight of the Mossad assassin relaxed and reading a newspaper in her kitchen at home. It was intriguing—so much so that she lost track of herself, and didn't realize that she'd progressed into full-on staring, until Ziva looked up and caught her. Abby looked away immediately, cheeks burning, but felt the woman's amused smile for several long moments.

The women sat in silence for quite a while. Ordinarily, Abby hated silence and tried to fill it with her music, her voice, the the drumming of her fingers on tabletops, anything at all to assure herself that she had not suddenly lost her hearing or something. This morning (well, afternoon, anyway, based on the clock above the stove), the rustling of the pages of the newspaper, the sound of their mugs against the table after either of them took a drink, was enough for her. Ziva's calm was relaxing her, and was reassuring enough. It worked for a while, until Abby suddenly remembered something. It seemed like it was of the utmost importance that she have an answer right that second, so she interrupted their silence. "What was that song you sang last night? What did it mean?"

Ziva looked up, and for a moment confusion played across her features. After that, though, she lowered her eyes again, and if Abby didn't know better, she might have thought the woman was embarrassed.

"It is just something from home." She didn't want to talk about it, but Abby didn't care.

"Well, I knew that, but what does it mean?" She traced the design on her mug with her index finger. If she made eye contact with Ziva, she might have lost her nerve and allowed the subject to drop.

"It—nothing." She sighed. "I do not..." How strange to hear that hesitance in Ziva David's voice. "Good things must be balanced with bad things. That's what it means. And it asks God to protect what we have and bring us peace." She drained her mug and rose to rinse it out. With her back turned to Abby, it was somewhat hard to make out her next words, but Abby managed. "I used to sing it when my younger sister had nightmares." For most other people, that wasn't much, but for Abby this felt huge. Not only did the normally-reserved woman just answer a question that she didn't want to answer, but she also volunteered a bit of personal information, without any prodding. Abby worried her lower lip between her teeth, and Ziva finally turned to face her again. "Are you feeling better this morning?"

Abby nodded. She didn't remember much from the night before—she was sort of distracted with crying like her world was coming down around her—but she did remember feelings. She remembered Ziva's cool touch, gentle against overheated skin. Even more vaguely than that, she remembered waking up briefly when the woman moved closer, tucking her arm around her waist. In her sleepy haze, it hadn't even occurred to Abby to think the situation was strange in the slightest. In the light of day, she was perplexed, but still not entirely weirded out. "He's gone." The words hardly summed up everything that she was feeling, but they were enough for now. Ziva nodded, and returned to her seat.

"I am sorry, Abby."

Her tone was like one offering condolences at a funeral, or maybe, less intensely, consoling a friend after a breakup. Abby noticed a movement in the corner of her eye—Ziva's hand fluttered slightly, before falling still again. Maybe she'd wanted to touch Abby's hand, but then decided against it at the last moment. Maybe it was just a muscle spasm.

"We weren't sleeping together, you know."

Ziva sputtered something, then looked up, surprised. "I...know?" She sounded surprised.

"It's just that a lot of people thought we were." Her tone was matter-of-fact, even though it was killing her to talk about him. "Tony did. I think he had McGee convinced too."The look on Ziva's face told Abby that no one had ever so much as breathed a word about such a thing around her. Strange. She shrugged, and Ziva returned her attention to the newspaper.

Abby regretted even opening her mouth about it—of course Ziva would know what was actually going on: she was Ziva. She took a few more sips of her tea, and then swirled the bag in the cooling liquid at the bottom of her mug. "Do you think you could take me to pick up my car? I should shower, and I have things I need to get done today." She hated having to ask for simple things like that, but since Ziva had practically kidnapped her last night, her car was still at work. The woman nodded, and closed the newspaper.

"Yes. Would you like to go right now?"

"We might as well." Abby shrugged again and caught Ziva's eyes. Within ten minutes they were heading out to Ziva's car, and within another fifteen minutes they were back in the kitchen. Ziva was swearing in Hebrew—Abby didn't necessarily understand the language, but she certainly knew that she was swearing.

"I do not understand! My tires were just fine last night. How could they possibly be flat this morning?" She had picked up the phone, and was dialing the number off of a scrap of paper that had been taped to her calendar.

"Happens to me all the time," Abby remarked. Ziva arched one perfect eyebrow at her.

"Do not be offended, Abby, but your car is an old hearse. Mine is brand new." The person on the other end of the line apparently picked up, and Ziva described her problem. A few of the Hebrew swear words cropped up again, and Abby laughed quietly. As the other person started speaking, Abby watched Ziva go from irritated to downright pissed, and after an argument, the woman slammed the phone back down on the hook.

"No one will come out and look at it?" Abby asked, once the woman had sat down at the table. She shook her head.

"They are overwhelmed today and I will have to wait until at least tomorrow," she spat. She slammed her hand on the table, and leaned back in her chair. Abby flinched, but leaned closer. "I am sorry, Abby. I could call Gi—McGee for you."

Abby shook her head. "I think he's visiting his sister today. Tony should be free, though." Ziva gestured towards the phone, and Abby rose from her seat to dial the familiar number. While she waited for Tony to answer, she found herself distracted by what she'd seen just a few moments ago. She'd seen Ziva pissed, but usually it was about murderers or criminals—a scary anger that could be unleashed on anyone who crossed her path. This had been somehow different—not as scary, at least, because Abby knew that Ziva wasn't going to fly into a rage at her helplessness (killing suspects was generally frowned upon at work) and throw someone into a wall or something. Hell, it might have even been hot: her eyes had gone all fierce and dark and her voice had lowered dangerously. Abby stole a glance at her out of the corner of her eye. She still looked pissed.

"Hello?" His voice was irritated, like he'd already said the same thing several times. Abby's attention jerked back to the phone.

"Tony! Hey. Sorry. I was, um...focused on other things." She explained her predicament, and Tony agreed to pick her up with surprisingly few jokes. When he arrived at Ziva's place, Abby was reluctant to let him in, because she knew that he would be unable to resist irritating the already-pissed and therefore deadly woman. Luckily he seemed to pick up on some of the tension in the place, because he just looked over her shoulder into the room and then jerked his head towards the "outside." Abby waved goodbye to her host and thought about hugging her, but figured she should probably leave her alone for now. Instead, she followed her friend out to the car and buckled herself safely inside, the melody of an unfamiliar lullaby playing in her head.


	4. Chapter 4

Seeing Tony did strange things to Abby. They'd always been close, friendly. When Tony had first joined the team, there had certainly been quite a bit more than merely a bit of "innocent flirting." They'd circled each other for several months, trying to figure out what exactly drove the other, how they worked. One night, they'd even ended up at his apartment, a little bit tipsy, but she'd left before any of Gibbs's rules could be broken. The next morning, they'd each figured out where the other stood—they were like brother and sister, old friends. While they still spent plenty of nights out drinking together, they always took separate cabs back to their respective homes.

But today, seeing him reminded her only of Gibbs, and of last night. Watching the man who had been there for so long, walk out on her, had hurt more than she thought anything in the world could hurt her, and even looking at Tony's face was reminding her of that hurt. He hadn't slept much last night, either. She could tell that, just by looking at him. His hair was rumpled in strange patterns, like he'd been running his fingers through his hair the whole night. He hadn't shaved this morning. His eyes, while not stereotypically red-rimmed or puffy, betrayed a sense of wariness that didn't often show up in his features. He glanced over, and they shared a small, secret smile. As he slowed to a stop at a stop sign, he held out his hand, and she took it, relaxing back against the seat. She didn't want to see pity. If she could pretend that last night hadn't happened, even for a few days, it might help her in getting over it more quickly. Not many people would understand that, but Tony had always "gotten" her. As different as they were in their personal lives and in how they expressed themselves, Abby had always suspected that they were very similar in how they felt about the team.

Finally, he broke. "Staying at Ziva's, eh?" he cracked. He was trying to lighten the mood, but it was obvious that he wasn't sure what he was doing. She couldn't blame him—it wasn't like they made Comforting Your Coworker After Your Boss Leaves You All After Almost Dying For Dummies. She smiled faintly. Watching him fumble for words, not knowing how to react in a situation, reminded her of when he'd first arrived, when he still hadn't figured out how to work for Gibbs.

"Staying at Ziva's," she replied, and gave a noncommittal shrug.

"How did that happen, anyway? When Ziva took off after you, McGee and I figured we were going to have to look for a replacement for one of you. My money was on you, by the way. McGee thought Ziva could take you down, but I've seen you when you're pissed and she wouldn't stand a chance." He laughed, and it didn't sound too obviously forced. Abby squeezed his hand.

"I don't know, it just sort of...happened." She thought back to the night before. She hadn't been sure what she was going to do with herself, but the thought of staying there in her lab, hunched against the wall trying to breathe through a stuffed-up nose had topped her list. She'd wanted to argue with Ziva, show her that she didn't need her help, but there'd been something in the woman's eyes that made her stop. It had looked a little bit like shyness, an uncertainty that she'd only ever seen one other time—when Ziva was helping her put the teeny pieces of the blown-up suitcase back together. "She gave me a tissue and then ordered me into her car like a drill sergeant." Or a concerned friend. "Then she offered me her couch." She very purposely left out the fact that she had not slept on the couch—she was not entirely sure that Tony could handle that.

"What does her place look like?" he asked. "Beyond the doorway, of course."

Abby was surprised. "You've never been inside?" She would have thought that he would have weaseled his way into Ziva's place long before now—possibly even in her first week. He was persistent, after all.

"Not even close," was the reply. "I went over there once, after that time we were locked in that shipping container together, but she wouldn't let me in. I think she had someone over or something." The disappointment was clear in his voice. "Now that I think about it, she invited me to dinner that day, but she hasn't mentioned it since. So come on, spill."

"I wasn't really paying attention," she answered truthfully. It was dark and she hadn't been in any kind of condition to be all that observant of her surroundings. "Her bedroom is really bright, though. Light and clean, I think."

She didn't really realize what she'd said until Tony had all but driven them into a telephone pole. He snapped his head around to stare at her so fast that she imagined she could hear his vertebrae snapping. Play it cool, Abby, she coached herself.

"And why do you know what her bedroom looks like, Miss Sciuto?" he demanded good-naturedly. Abby could feel her cheeks burning, but tried very hard not to let on.

"I changed in there last night. She offered me something to sleep in, and that's where I changed." She tried to scoff indignantly, but it just came out a puff of air. "Geez, Tony, get your mind out of the gutter."

He was not having any of that.

"No way, Abby. If you changed in her room last night, how would you know how light or bright it is? I think you woke up there this morning." A pause, while he seemed to work things through in his head. "That would actually explain a lot of things about her, now that I think about it."

"Tony, come on. That little girl on her pink bicycle over there is about to pass us. Do you think you could speed up a little?"

"No ma'am, I can not—not until you tell me what happened last night. Are you seriously telling me that Ziva swings for the other team? I mean, you I always kind of figured, but Ziva...man."

Abby rolled her eyes. She'd never really believed that sexuality was something that was set in stone—her experience with it had taught her that it was somewhat fluid, moving and changing—but Tony was far too fascinated by girl-on-girl action to care. "I don't know what...team she swings for, Tony—and I hate that phrase, by the way. I was having trouble sleeping on her couch, so she came and got me and I slept in her bed. It was nothing—you or McGee would have done the same."

"Yeah, but not without copping a feel," Tony cracked, and Abby had to shake her head. "Hey, I'm just being honest here. Deny it all you want, but I'm willing to bet a month of paperwork that there's more to this than you're telling me." He pulled up in front of Abby's place and put the car into Park. She leaned over and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.

"He was right, you know," she murmured, before getting out of the car. "In leaving the team to you." The words stung, but she knew that he needed to hear this as much as she'd needed Ziva's lullaby the night before. "You're going to do great." She gave him an awkward sideways car-hug, then headed inside.


End file.
